A Simple 5K Won’t Turn a Tough Neighborhood Around All by Itself—But It’s a Start

I eyed the border nervously. I tugged on my singlet, adjusted my shorts, and crossed the street. The first guy I met narrowed his eyes. “Some kind of marathon going on?” he said.

“Sort of,” I said. “A 5K.” The man seemed surprised. So was I. I was three blocks from home, and this was new to both of us.

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For the past 20 years, I have lived in Oak Park, Illinois, a suburb just west of Chicago. More than a hundred years ago, the adjoining neighborhood immediately to the east, Austin, was a quaint village of leafy streets lined with Victorian houses. But in 1899, Austin was annexed by Chicago, and the fortunes of the two communities diverged, first a bit, and then, with redlining and white flight in the 1960s and ’70s, more dramatically. Today, Oak Park remains a diverse community with excellent schools, a vibrant business sector, and safe streets. Austin is poor, majority African-American, and plagued by violent crime.

Today, I was going to run there.

I crossed Austin Avenue and walked east down Chicago Avenue, the central neighborhood artery. It was the morning of the third Austin P.O.W.E.R. of Life 5K (People Organizing Wealth & Economic Resources), whose race planner, Malcolm Crawford, has deep roots in Chicago activism. His father, “Big John” Crawford, was a central figure in local politics in the ’60s and ’70s. Malcolm, 50, got into community organizing about 30 years ago, when he opened an Africana store in Austin, which soon became a neighborhood center. When Walmart wanted to open a store in Austin, they held private meetings in Malcolm’s back room.

Crawford’s vision: Take vacant storefronts along Chicago Avenue and bring in blues bars, dance clubs, and cultural centers reflecting the rich history of African-Americans in Chicago—a “Soul City Corridor” to go with Little Italy, Chinatown, and Greektown. But first they need money, to buy and renovate buildings, and community, to put aside skepticism about all the good past do-gooders had promised to do. “So why a 5K?” I asked.

Tim, who is not 400 pounds (“I’m…close,” he says), saw the broader allure of a race. “Tell people in Oak Park you’re doing a community walk, they’ll ask you to explain it,” he said. “But a 5K? They’ll say, ‘Sure, I’ll use it as part of my training for the Chicago Marathon,’ or whatever.”

Less than an hour before the 8:30 a.m. start, I located the race registration in a flooring store where young women sat at tables. I picked up my number and asked one, “Do you have a gear check?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is,” she said. Outside, there were no tents or sponsor banners, but the Chicago Police had a table. I left my bag with the cops.

The people waiting at the stage for announcements were not the usual race crowd. A few, mostly white, wore shorts and singlets. But for each of us there were three in new shoes, long pants, and sweatshirts, on a day headed to 90 degrees. Kids abounded. Rules were loose—no mats, chips, or official timing.

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Miss Junior Pre-Teen Illinois sang the national anthem. Then came politicians, including the local state senator, county executive, and alderman, all African-American, all calling out faces in the crowd, followed by Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel, dressed to run. “We have to show our kids a model to aspire to,” he said. “And show the world that this community is not what we see on the news.”

Finally, Crawford thanked everyone for coming and announced he was going to run. He looked doubtful, though. He hadn’t run any distance in quite awhile.

A horn sounded, and we took off. I slipped right, juked left, and found myself among the leaders. Then I came upon the mayor, who must have claimed a primo starting place. We could have a heart-to-heart…or I could beat him. I kept running. For a moment, I was second but was passed as I melted in the heat. I finished third and clutched my generic 5K medal to my heart like an Olympic bronze.

Runners and walkers kept appearing, huffing and puffing or grinning and waving. Eventually, there came Crawford. He’d thought of quitting and riding a golf cart to head to the finish line to greet runners, but a friend was broadcasting his race live on Facebook. He couldn’t quit in front of the whole world, could he?

Afterward, Crawford told me he’d like the race to grow, but doesn’t want it to become just another 5K. “We want it to stay fun, with everybody in the community feeling like they’re a part of it.”

And will he run it again next year?

“Next year, I’m going to win it,” he said.

Headed home, I looked back as I crossed Austin Avenue and saw people talking, laughing, just existing. I looked ahead at my neighborhood. Both places looked exactly the same.

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The author is a 3:09 marathoner and the host of NPR’s Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me! For more, click here.

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